Painfully aware of the number of people focused on him, Cyril nodded slowly. They were measuring him, weighing him, unaware that as the living embodiment of Behemoth his dimensions were lofty beyond dispute.

In the past, he had a few casual flings, but had never been in a situation that bore any resemblance to his current predicament. As such, he chose to refer to the only source of wisdom on this subject of which he was aware: the courting etiquette described in the middling-quality romance tales he enjoyed.

Cyril bowed. “You look even more beautiful than the last time we met.”

Silence followed his declaration. Some of the drow warriors shared glances with one another, though most of them continued to stare at Cyril with a sort of bored disdain. Tyrin was staring at his feet, most of his face obscured by the shield of his hand.

For her part, the drow maiden glanced up and slightly to the right of Cyril with the intensity of a falconer. With a flick of her wrist, the throwing knife vanished back up into her silken sleeve. “Yes. The soul gem you offered me had the perfect combination of Darkness and Slaughter for my needs. This allowed me to break through a bottleneck with my innate affinities. Cultivators are often thought to become more alluring as they begin to perfectly reflect their Dominions.”

Despite the emotionless explanation she offered, her voice betrayed the slightest quaver to Cyril’s seismic sense. He suspected his compliment had caught her by surprise and she secretly had butterflies fluttering about in her stomach. He knew her type.

Before he could respond, Loras stepped forward. His voice hummed out with pleasing resonance, deep and confident. “I see the young master has stumbled upon some of the drow courting rituals.” If he disapproved, he offered no sign. “May I ask who we have the pleasure of allying with?”

The drow maiden was about to answer, when her Dark-haired Spirit Guardian stepped forward. “You are in the presence of Lady Aleytha Sparrowheart, third in line to the Darksteel Throne, youngest daughter of the reigning Drow Queen.”

Loras considered this, then sent a communication through his mental link with Cyril. I believe we should reveal your true identity. At this point, secrecy is near useless. Take advantage of who you are.

Behemoth does not hide, Cyril agreed, a touch more uncertain than his grandiose declaration may have suggested.

Loras cleared his throat, then announced grandly, “I present to you Prince Cyril of the Wandering Phoenix Tribe. Vessel of Behemoth. Brother to the Vessel of Phoenix. Earth God. Inheritor of the Material Heart. The Celestial Splinter. Together with his divine sibling, he will purge the world of Leviathan’s tyranny and usher in the golden age of our world.”

Absolute silence reigned following the declaration.

“That is correct,” confirmed Cyril, as the last note of Loras’ heralding finished echoing.

The drows remained frozen in place, except for the Dark-haired Spirit Guardian. He was laughing softly to himself, like a gambler who just lost all of his worldly possessions in one desperate bet.

Elder Lorian, as expected, appeared completely unsurprised. The cultivators under his care reacted with a mix of awe and disbelief. Two of them flung themselves to the sand and kowtowed as if Behemoth’s colossal foot was poised right over them. Elder Lorian joined them in a more dignified kneel. The rest of his cohort followed suit, though confusion remained on some of their faces.

Cyril couldn’t blame them. Some of them may have heard of him when they were children, but the knowledge of his return had yet to remind the tribe of their lost princeling. Let alone the knowledge a second divine Titan had emerged from their midst.

One of the drow warriors made to kneel as well, perhaps not understanding the language and wishing to join in with a bizarre cultural ritual. His neighbors hoisted him back to his feet the moment his knees began to bend.

Princess Aleytha slowly forced herself to make eye contact with Cyril. “I take this to mean we have not involved ourselves in a simple dispute between desert tribes, then.”

Tyrin joined the conversation, having finally regained his composure. “The men you have captured are members of the Cerulean Scales. The elite honor guard of the Cult of Leviathan, also known as the Empire of Tears. Strange to see only three of them. They almost never operate in less than phalanxes of twenty.”

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The prisoners in plate armor offered no sign they cared about such words. In fact, they had eyes only for Cyril. Even the battered one bleeding out on the ground stared at him with a vicious, seething hatred since the rather loud declaration Loras had made. The conjoined will of the assembled drows pressed down on them, restricting their spirits. No doubt they would have lashed out at him otherwise.

One of the prisoners, a wiry man with a pinched expression and dark veins caressing his cheeks, must have been the Hexmaster responsible for twisting Cyril’s tribesmen into the carrion totems.

There was a zealous madness to his eyes, a pure hatred for what Cyril dared to represent. There was no fear, no disappointment about being captured, only a savage wish to cause pain to a hated foe.

Cyril disliked that expression for a multitude of reasons. “Princess Aleytha. As you no doubt are thinking, it would be hasty for us to end our courtship here and make such a massive commitment. We should continue to exchange gifts, and take time to grow more fond of one another. In the meantime, feel free to slaughter your way across the battlefield.”

Some of the ice in Aleytha’s expression vanished, replaced with a dark glee. Her sharp, perfect teeth spread in a wild grin. Now that the awkward discussion of betrothal has been postponed, she seemed more in her element.

He had no real interest in some official marriage with an Underdark Princess, though he had no particular reason to offend potential allies. If love would not bind the drows to his side, perhaps other methods would entice them.

Admittedly, he wasn’t offended by the proposal. She was an exquisite jade beauty behind the murderous fiend aesthetic—perhaps partially because of it. There was a time and a place to indulge in such frivolities, and he wasn’t there.

“What do you think, Soren?” she asked her Spirit Guardian. “Shall we?”

Soren clapped his massive hands together repeatedly, as if trying to crush a skull between them, while cackling to himself. “Oh, how lovely. No wonder you surface folk are so strong now! This is what our people need to grow! To prosper!

We’ve stumbled on a vein of orichalcum. Earth God!”

“Very wise, Uncle,” said Cyril, laying the honorific on thick.

Soren clapped again in approval. The other drow warriors must have respected him greatly, because their cold demeanor vanished in the wake of Soren’s rambling. In its place came the savage howling of a pack of wild dogs about to give chase. The night boiled with Dark qi.

“In truth, these rats have been pestering us for a while.” Aleytha paced across the sand like a lioness on the prowl, violence thrumming throughout her body. “Spreading wyrms and other abominations into the Underdark. Defiling our sacred caverns. Harvesting our spiritual herbs and natural crystal clusters. The Earth God has come to bring glory to our empire!”

Cyril didn’t bother to correct her about how he had made no such promise. If they did assist him, he had no qualms in helping to uplift his allies.

The addition of their elite force had turned his small party into a roaming death squad, after all. The sooner they finished cleaning up the rest of this battle, the sooner the tension in his shoulders could fade away. Only complete victory would suffice.

He quickly reviewed the Knowledge network and noticed the forces of his tribe were being to congregate on a particular spot in the distance. His sister blazed in the center of their midst, a star that eclipsed all the runes clustered around her.

“We need to find out what these Scales were attempting to accomplish,” said Cyril. “Loras, feel free to use any..techniques you may have picked up for dealing with the cultists. I’m not feeling so merciful after seeing what this bastard did to my people.”

The Hexmaster spit on the ground, mocking Cyril. Loras blurred across the sand and his leg scythed out, smashing the man into the ground. Laying there, bloody drool dribbling out of his mouth, the Hexmaster continued to watch Cyril, unblinking.

Loras wiped his bloody foot against the sand. “The Cerulean Scales are the elite of the elite in Leviathan’s forces. These monster will not divulge any information, no matter what torture methods you may think you can stomach allowing.”

“Wrong,” slurred the Hexmaster through his broken mouth.

Loras turned slowly to face him again. “You will talk?”

“Yes, why not? Here it is. You captured us, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s too late. So funny, to hear you discussing how you would turn the tides of this battle. It’s already over. And to think, Behemoth is here too!”

Cyril frowned, the nape of his neck itching. Once more he turned his attention toward the Knowledge network, though he hadn’t yet noticed anything out of the ordinary.

Loras and Tyrin, however, took the Hexmaster’s rambling very seriously. Cyril could sense them sending a warning throughout the Knowledge network, attempting to alert Elys. No doubt a thousand different messages were flooding her at once.

The Scales began to emanate cursed qi, the energy struggling to overcome the oppressive field of willpower bearing down on them.

Despite the suppression, the Scales were a conniving bunch, weaving their techniques together to empower the Hexmaster as the nexus of their focus. Given enough time, they may have thrown off their shackles. Instead, a barrage of Dark techniques and Tyrin’s solar breath annihilated them thoroughly, turning the area into a crater. They were so thoroughly destroyed no sign of their bonded spirits emerged from the desolation.

Loras had managed to leap away from the salvo unscathed. Immediately, he turned his retreat into a sprint in Elys’ direction. He blurred across the sand, Tyrin swooping behind him in close pursuit. The speed at which they moved made Cyril realize they had been humoring him, matching his pace.

Behind them followed Soren, disappearing and reappearing across the dunes at regular intervals. Some sort of short-range teleport technique, he assumed.

Frowning, Cyril seized Aleytha by the hand and pulled her towards Elys’ direction, though they lagged far behind the others. Drow warriors flowed across the ground like shadows, the stronger ones overtaking Cyril easily.

What had they missed? Was there some blind spot that even Elys and her high-tier Dominion of Knowledge hadn’t managed to see through?

A few moments later, Cyril had his answer.

Elys’ voice drifted through the Knowledge network, reaching every single node at once. Her voice was weary. Sad.

My people. My loves. I have finished my battlefield analysis. The Cult of Leviathan has sacrificed all these people, all of us, in order to fuel a grand working. We managed to damage it, but their intention eluded us until too late.

They have created a Grand Teleportation Array, hidden within all their other plans. The anchor point is myself.

I will attempt to stop it. But I don’t know what they’re intending. What’s on the other side.

It has been my honor to lead the Wandering Phoenix Tribe. May we never die.

Now run.